Dearest Forsaken
by crazybeagle
Summary: "I could leave you like this, all day long. But I won't. And you know why?" Lucifer leaned down close, whispered in his ear. "Because you would lie here all week if you thought it would spite me." Tags to "Free to be You And Me" and "The End."
1. Chapter 1

_**Dearest Forsaken**_**  
>by crazybeagle<strong>

**Written for Livejournal's Summer of Sam Love 2011, a tag-fic for "Free To Be You And Me" and "The End". So the request for the prompt was essentially for Sam-centric angst, and I hope I served that part up well enough, but it spins off into a much bigger, much more injurious story, exploring just what Sam might've been up to between finding out he's Lucifer's vessel and when Dean meets up with him again. And what might've happened had Lucifer met with Sam a second time. Title from Iron and Wine. ****  
><strong>**Prompt, by Monicawoe: **_**Immediately following Lucifer's visit in 5x03, Sam is alone in his motel room trying to come to terms with the idea that he is destined to be Lucifer's vessel.****  
><strong>_**Summary: **_**"I could leave you like this, all day long. But I won't. And you know why?" Lucifer leaned down close, whispered in his ear. "Because you would lie here all week if you thought it would spite me."**_**  
><strong>

_It had to be you, Sam. It always had to be you. _

A second later and he was gone, and everything was normal again. Normal, run-of-the-mill, reeks-of-a-thousand-ashtrays motel room, normal neon-lit parking lot, normal chilly Midwestern night, normal fly on the normal fruit salad cup he'd tossed in the normal garbage can, normal freaking everything. No sign that Lucifer (_Lucifer_) had just been here just moments ago, that real evil had passed through this place, and through words alone had contaminated him and violated him in ways he couldn't describe. It was as though some part of him— hell, his soul probably— had shriveled up and died, and was now sitting heavy, lifeless, and impossibly cold inside his chest. And now _normal _ couldn't console him. It was deceptive. Offensive, almost.

For starters, he wished that stupid fly would just drop dead.

It was buzzing lazily around, wings all-too-loudly beating the stuffy air. And the _normal _of it all was so stifling, he didn't even know how the damn thing _didn't _just drop dead.

It wasn't until he began feeling lightheaded that he realized he had been holding his breath. He exhaled then, shakily, and barely realized he'd put his head in his hands and was yanking on two fistfuls of his hair.

To say that this was all for nothing. That couldn't change, he couldn't ever change, and that everything he cared about, everything he worked for, everybody he loved, was going to meet a bloody end.

At his hands.

To say that, and to sound like he actually _cared_….

And to look like Jess, exploit her memory against him on top of that...it was insult to injury, to say the least.

He scrubbed at his burning eyes angrily. Because if Lucifer was watching, still keeping tabs on his mind somehow, he wasn't about to give him the satisfaction.

So yeah. He had to hold it together. Hold it together, hell, get _angry, _and then maybe actually _do _something about this.

But after several numb minutes of staring down at the ratty carpet, listening to his own shaky breaths and the lazy, contented humming of _that stupid fly_ that couldn't possibly be bothered by the fact that he'd just been informed that he'd been destined from before recorded history to be the author and finisher of the friggin' apocalypse—several minutes, and he hadn't _done _ anything. For the life of him he couldn't think of anything _to _do. Logic and rationality seemed to elude him. His hands were shaking.

Except…

He _could _think of something he wanted to do, suddenly—the only thing he wanted to do, he realized.

Call Dean.

How it would help matters any, he had no idea, but some childish instinct within him—faint and dim after the events of the past year but somehow, miraculously still there—was telling him that if he just picked up the phone and could hear Dean's voice, somehow all of this would be better. Everything would make sense again. Sure, it was likely to freak Dean out, likely to be the one final straw to convince him that he really_ couldn't _trust Sam, ever again, no matter what he said or did to try to atone. But Sam could deal with that, because if he himself couldn't think of some sort of action to take towards preventing all this, Dean was the one who could. And if they had a plan they could stick to, if they were working toward something and_ together_ again, than maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to breathe easier. Not that he'd berate himself any less for all that had happened—was now happening— or expect Dean to have an ounce of confidence in him, but at least he'd be able to get his head on straight. Because if the past month or so had taught him anything, his own attempts to get his head on straight by opting out of the whole damn mess that he'd started by running from it all—going through the motions of some pitiful, half-assed semblance of normality— had all been in vain. A few weeks later and the evil he'd unleashed had just hunted him down again. Redemption seemed pretty far out of the question. But if there was a single damn thing he could still do to fight back, he'd take it. And he'd need Dean's help, or he was doomed. Hell, everyone was doomed.

He reached for his phone.

He paused, finger hovering over the speed dial. But inexplicably, when he went to actually do what in theory was the only thing he _could _do, he couldn't make himself do it. Which made no damn sense. He'd need to do it anyway, because hearing the news now from Sam himself would be a lot better for Dean than hearing it later from some other, more convoluted source, but he couldn't. He didn't know if he could hold it together yet, compose himself enough to get the words out, especially when he could already practically hear the loaded silence and clipped answers on the other end that would indicate that the revelation was just so much more salt in the wounds of Sam's betrayal.

So yeah, he didn't call. For awhile, anyways.

The clock read 11PM, and he found himself with a switchblade in his palm, mechanically flipping it open and closed, hardly realizing he was doing it. It wasn't until he cut his finger that he actually noticed. Which was stupid, because really, the last time he'd cut himself on his own damn knife from not being careful enough was when he was…what, twelve years old? He watched a fat drop of blood slide down his finger and fall onto the carpet.

And then, with sudden, sharp and grim clarity, he realized that there _was _something he could do, something he _should _do. The next logical step, really.

_I will kill myself before letting you in._

_I'll just bring you back, _Lucifer had said, a hint of amusement in his voice as though he'd like to see Sam try.

And even though he didn't exactly doubt Lucifer's ability to raise the dead, it would be stupid not to try, to call his bluff. Because despite his claims, that's what the devil was supposedly notorious for, right? Lies, or twisted half-truths. According to the Biblical model, anyway. And if Lucifer _wasn't_ bluffing…well, if it'd somehow make things more difficult for him, impede and prolong his efforts to attain a vessel by first having to find and drag Sam's ass back from…well, wherever he'd end up after he died, then it'd be selfish of him not to at least test that avenue. Plus, if his statements of _I don't suppose you'd tell me where you are _and _I will find you_ were anything to go by, Lucifer had access to his mind, but didn't know where to physically locate him. Which meant the sigils on his ribs must be working just fine. It'd be hard to raise him if he didn't even know where Sam was…

He let the tip of the blade linger on the skin of one wrist, pushing lightly, but faltered before he could press down hard enough to draw blood. He swallowed hard, the realization of where he was actually going to go if he succeeded in this— if Lucifer was wrong— hitting him hard. There wasn't a chance that he hadn't damned himself in freeing Lilith, the very act which had apparently made him fit to be the vessel of the _devil_. And if he did this, he'd just be putting his soul on the fast-track to eternal torment. And unlike Dean, somehow he didn't suspect there'd be an angel around to pull him out. That was enough to give him pause. The knife hilt trembled a bit in his grasp.

And suddenly, (pathetically), he didn't know if he could go through with this, either. He'd certainly earned himself damnation—_you've made your bed, now lie in it—_so what was he so scared of? That it'd _hurt? _ But he didn't want to do this.

Not alone, anyways.

Which brought him right back to _selfish. _Because if somebody were here—Dean, Cas, Bobby—and even if they agreed with him on this, which he was pretty sure that Dean wouldn't, anyway, whether things were fucked up between them or not, it'd be a pretty low thing to do to off himself in front of them, and make them watch that on top of everything else he'd put them through.

But he didn't have the fortitude otherwise, he knew it.

Again, _pathetic. _

…Which lead him right back to: _options. _And there was nothing new there. It was _Call-Dean-kill-yourself-go-to-Hell-call-Dean. _Neither option sounded any more appealing no matter how many times he tried to convince himself of their necessity. He was being walled in here, backed into a corner. Devil or no, it was the same old _destiny _crap all over again—the same line Azazel and his many minions had all fed him, hell, the same line _Ruby _had fed him even if he hadn't realized it at the time, and he'd always deluded himself into thinking that theirs was the only way. He'd sat back and just taken it.

And _damn_ if he didn't hate being walled in.

He flung the knife down and launched himself to his feet, suddenly invigorated, and seeing red.

Allowing himself to _be _walled in was playing straight into Lucifer's hands. He had to take the reins back—even if he'd lost the right to them—because if he was answering to anybody else but himself now, everything would be lost. And no angel, no demon, _nobody_ was about to interfere with that. Not this time.

But any way he looked at it, he was still cornered. And the only one who could help him out of that corner, extend a hand to get him back on his feet and ready to kick Lucifer—and _destiny—_ where it counted, was Dean. Isolated, he was powerless. Lucifer knew that.

Maybe redemption wasn't so far out of reach as he'd thought. Maybe he'd just been going about it wrong.

He reached for his phone again.

...

_You and me, we're the fire and oil of the Armageddon. You know, on that basis alone, we should just pick a hemisphere. Stay away from each other for good…._

_We're not stronger when we're together, Sam. I think we're weaker._

Dean had hung up on him.

Sam could only stare at the phone in his hand, not sure whether he wanted to throw the phone at the wall or call him back as many times as it took for Dean to change his mind. Not that he would, because he knew that he wasn't the only one in the family with a hell of a stubborn streak. But he _had _to. Because while Dean and Cas might be out there now working to thwart Michael, that was only half the battle. And though Sam wasn't about to give in on his end, dread still blossomed in the pit of his stomach at the thought of going it alone, and the sneaking suspicion that if he and Dean couldn't fight this together, everything was gonna go to hell and fast.

He settled for jamming the phone into his pocket in the hope that Dean would call him back. Not likely, but still. It was all he had to go on at this point.

Well, not all. His gaze drifted back to the discarded switchblade now sitting innocuously on the bed.

And here he was, backed into a corner again.

It should've pissed him off. He'd been good and pissed not five minutes ago.

But at the words _Bye, Sam, _followed by the _click _of the receiver, all the fight had gone out of him.

Without much conscious awareness, he somehow ended up in the car—some beat-up, bland old rental that smelled a little like stale cigarettes and for some reason old butterscotch candy. When he'd gotten it, he'd been kinda glad Dean couldn't see it, because based on the smell alone he'd probably dub it an "old-lady-mobile" or something to that effect. It seemed like an almost comically trivial concern now. At any rate, he found himself in said car about fifteen minutes later, the few twinkling streetlamps on the sparse outskirts of Garber, Oklahoma flying by through the chilly October air.

A sort of numbness had settled over him again—a heavy, suffocating numbness, but welcome nonetheless because it meant he didn't have to _think_, a body on autopilot. With both hands on the steering wheel and his eyes wide and glazed, he took in the faded highway lines that stretched beyond the glow of headlights into the infinite, desolate stretch of Oklahoma pastureland that surrounded him.

He'd barely even realized where he was going until he'd actually arrived almost an hour later, pulled over by the side of some gravelly back road right next to what he was fairly certain was the only damn source of running water, aside for some scattered cow ponds, in the entire state of Oklahoma.

Okay, not technically true, not if you were up in the mountain ranges where he and Dean had had a few hunts in the past, but most of the state was field after flat, mind-numbing field, interspersed with rickety fences and grain silos. The dusty monotony of it all had a way of making otherwise normal variations in the land—hills and creeks and such—seem random and utterly surprising when they did crop up.

And here was this creek, with some five-syllable Native American name that he wasn't sure he could pronounce, bordered on both sides by a smattering of trees. As if to prove its defiance to the surrounding land, the creek had cut itself a deep, rocky ravine that seemed startlingly dramatic after miles of, well, nothingness. The creek wound along some distance from the road, but in this spot—the spot he'd noted on his first drive into Garber with that truck driver who'd first picked him up outside River Pass, Colorado—the creek came right up to meet the road. A lookout point of rosy-colored rock jutted out by the side of the gravel road, bordered by a rusty old steel railing like those he'd seen in photos of Grand Canyon tourist observation points.

He'd come here more than once. It was serene out here, and lonely, though he sort of liked that now that he was working regular shifts at a bar. Cars rarely passed this way. It was a good place to…he didn't exactly know, actually. Sit and contemplate everything he'd tried to run away from? Admittedly that was hard _not _to do, and it made him feel like he was wallowing every time he did it. But out here he felt better, somehow. Nothing had changed, but being miles and miles away from any living being was somehow comforting. It offered a sort of detachment, even if it was merely a physical one, that helped him clear his mind. A handful of times in the past few weeks he'd sat on the edge of this ravine—though admittedly when the sun was up, never at night—and dangled his feet over the edge, staring down a good three or four stories at the tumble of huge, jagged red rocks and stunted little bushes in the mouth of the ravine, at the joyfully gurgling ribbon of muddy water at its base. And thought of nothing in particular. Except for the last two times, when he'd brought a book to read, an old battered paperback copy of—of all things—_The Fellowship of the Ring, _which some local community college professor had left behind at the bar one night and never reclaimed. The irony didn't escape him.

_So, pit stop on Mount Doom?_

He'd almost smiled at the memory.

Almost. Because that was the day Sam had decided to leave. And the day Dean let him leave.

But at any rate, it was so easy to lose yourself when you were reading, even if he'd read this one a good few times, having been a bona fide Tolkien nerd back when he was about fourteen. Needless to say, the last few weeks had led him to embrace any distraction, however mundane, with open arms.

The book was still sitting, dog-eared, on the dash. Wasn't gonna do him much good now. Too dark to try, anyway.

He left the key in the ignition and the headlights on, and got out of the car. The slamming of the car door and the crunching of his footsteps over the gravelly ground sounded almost intrusive next to the soft bubbling of the flowing water below and the song of the crickets, but he hardly noticed. He shivered as he neared the railing, the air having dropped a couple degrees near the creek and the breeze having picked up some.

By the illumination of the headlights, he was able to clearly see the edge of the outcropping, and stepped over the rail to his usual resting spot on the other side. There was a good few feet of clearance between the back of the railing and the ravine edge, and he could sit securely and comfortably with his legs dangling in the open air. Tonight he didn't bother sitting, though. He just stood, looking down.

He couldn't even see the bottom. It was like looking down the gullet of some giant yawning monster.

And once more, staring into that blackness, he found himself contemplating his options.

_Option_, more like.

He hadn't wanted to off himself, sure, but now that he'd talked to Dean, he found that many of those inhibitions were dissolving into a dull apathy. Might as well do it, really.

_And why not now? _ he thought, unable to tear his eyes from the ravine. _At this point, what the hell._

He took a step closer.

What stopped him from jumping then and there, in the end, was not the return of any of his former fears. It was logic.

There was no telling if the fall would actually kill him. It would _probably _kill him. There was an important distinction in that.

If he jumped and it _didn't _kill him, he could be lying at the bottom of the ravine, unable to move, with a load of shattered bones and a shit ton of unnecessary pain until he either died or was found. And if he was found, which wasn't likely but still a possibility, the current fake medical insurance card that was currently sitting in his wallet—that was currently in his car thirty feet away—had Dean on record as next-of-kin. Sure, their names weren't real, but they'd be able to get ahold of Dean if he did survive and was airlifted to some big city hospital.

And Dean would be beyond pissed.

That is, if he even came at all. Maybe, if he really was dying afterwards. But Sam wouldn't blame him if he didn't bother, especially since he'd already told Dean on the phone that Lucifer had said he'd bring him back if he died.

And that aside, Dean had made it pretty damn clear he never wanted to see him again. _Pick a hemisphere _and all. But if Dean proved him wrong, and decided he did want to haul ass all the way to Oklahoma to witness Sam's latest fuck-up—because, really, how pitiful is it to fail at killing yourself, especially with as many years' experience with killing things as he had under his belt—well, he wasn't about to pull a shitty stunt like that on his brother. Even if it'd just be the latest shitty stunt in a now spectacular track record of shitty stunts he'd pulled on Dean lately.

And that was that. He couldn't do it.

Even if, looking down the mouth of the ravine, taking the single step off the edge just seemed so easy…

And God, wasn't that just melodramatic of him. And as messed up as it was, his lips twitched despite himself at the thought. _What are you, a thirteen year old girl who writes bad poetry in her journal and just got dumped by her boyfriend?_ The voice in his head sounded suspiciously like Dean's. _Yeah, that sounds like you. _

But there were other ways of getting the job done—faster, cleaner, a hell of a lot less painful. He'd just need to think it through a bit.

And when he took a step back (figuratively, because there wasn't much room on the ledge), shut his eyes, and stopped staring down that goddamn ravine like he was hypnotized, he realized that he really didn't want to deal with this tonight. He could do it later, maybe tomorrow, once he'd though worked out the logistics of it all a little more carefully. And had the time, he was pretty sure. Lucifer had certainly seemed content to wait.

And maybe, just maybe, if he waited, Dean might call back…

Fat chance, that, but he still hoped against hope.

He huffed a sigh and lowered himself carefully down until he was sitting on the ledge. Really, the fact that he knew Dean wouldn't call him back, the fact that Dean had said outright that he wanted nothing to do with him ever again, was a testament to just how badly Sam had hurt him. Yeah, he'd screwed things up with Dean, and he'd be the first to admit it, but when Sam had called, that had been the _last _thing he'd expected to hear. Yeah, a rejection, maybe, an insistence that he still couldn't be trusted, but not _I never want to see you again. _Hell, even after he'd gone after Lilith, left Dean beaten and nearly strangled to death, Dean had still come after him, had still saved him. But now…

If Sam had finally reached his quota of second chances with Dean, when he once would've sworn that was impossible, that meant he'd broken something inside Dean that couldn't be fixed.

Dean had gone to Hell for him. Dean had gone to Hell for him, spent decades being broken down in every way imaginable _for him,_ and when he'd gotten back and needed Sam most, Sam had ignored him. Fucking _ignored _him. Resented him, even. Called him weak. Who the hell could even do that?

Apparently, he could.

And end the world while he was at it.

And all for some stupid delusions of grandeur. Because that's all it'd been, if he was honest with himself, was power. Not that he'd thought so at the time, oh no—he'd unleashed hell on earth with the best of intentions, hadn't he?

The Lucifer thing must've just finally cinched the whole thing for Dean. Of course Dean wouldn't believe that Sam could resist the temptation to fall back into the same patterns, especially now that the singular most evil being in the universe was going to be using the same damn carrot on a stick—power—to try and lure him.

So he should just forget about waiting on that phone call, really. Not a snowball's chance in Hell Dean was gonna call back. Sam was alone in this, with nobody to blame but himself. He'd practically dug his own grave.

And now he was sitting here moaning about it, wasn't he, a one-man pity party, when it was Dean he should be worrying about, Dean he'd hurt the most, not himself. That just figured.

He absently rubbed at his temples. His head was starting to throb. The crickets chirped on and on.

Minutes passed. He'd leaned his head back against the pole and shut his eyes, willing the damn headache to go away and nearly nodding off in the process.

But when he heard a voice directly behind him, he started so badly he nearly pitched forward into the ravine.

"Thinking of jumping, are we?"

A sudden grip on his shoulders pulled him backwards before he could overbalance and fall.

"Oh, don't speed things up on my account," the voice drawled. "By all means, take your time. Count your regrets. Say your goodbyes to this cruel world."

Sam froze. He didn't turn to look. The hands were still firm on his shoulders, and any sudden movements might get him pushed into the ravine. He paused, trying to get his bearings, one hand slowly snaking out to grab the rail while the other inched toward his pocket and the switchblade.

And—_shit—_he recognized that voice.

"Reggie," he said quietly, gears in his mind working, trying to figure out how he was going to be able to even stand back up, let alone turn around and defend himself with only a few feet to stand on and a rickety rail between them. The odds weren't good. "Thought you and Tim left town."

"Well Tim did leave town…" the voice continued with a hint of amusement, "...in a manner of speaking."

Sam's blood ran cold at that. "You're not Reggie," he said slowly.

"Nope, sorry," the voice said. "Reggie couldn't make it. But he sends his regards." It paused. "Well actually he sends a 'Fuck you very much,' but, y'know, nuance."

Sam tightened his grip on the railing and chanced a glance upward. And there was Reggie's face, eyes pure black and gleaming in the glow of the headlights, leering down at him. Sam looked away again, facing the open air over the ravine, jaw clenched. "How'd you find me?" he asked. He wasn't so interested in how the demon had actually found him so much as he was in keeping him talking until he could form a plan.

"Wasn't easy," the demon said. He sounded pleased with himself. "It was like you'd dropped off the grid. Now how'd you manage that? Hex bag?"

Sam said nothing. Even after Cas had told them that the hex bags would be useless against Lucifer, it didn't mean he wasn't still paranoid about keeping them on his person, in the car, in his motel room, now that he was on his own. Just because the sigils kept Lucifer away didn't mean he was fine with demons knocking on his door.

The demon took his silence as an affirmation. He nodded almost approvingly. "Mm. Impressive. Who'd you have to kill to get your hands on one of those?" Again, Sam didn't answer. "Hex bag, and some Enochian jargon, then, if even my Father couldn't find you."

Something awful twisted in Sam's gut. "Who are you?"

"A messenger," said the demon proudly, as if the title were the highest of honors. "And devoted servant of the Bringer of Light. Pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Sam Winchester," the demon said amiably, but snorted when Sam didn't answer. "Though I gather by your silence the feeling's not mutual." Sam refused to look up. The grip on his shoulders tightened painfully. "Fine. Be that way. But I'd learn some respect if I were you, Sir High-And-Mighty. If not for me, then for the One who sent me."

"Lucifer sent you?" Sam asked. He didn't relax any, but if this was just a lackey and not a demon working independently, he was probably out of physical danger. Didn't mean it didn't piss him off, though. So much for Lucifer biding his time.

"Yes," said the demon, letting go of Sam's shoulders. Sam heard him back up a few steps, footsteps crunching on the pebbly ground. Sam waited to see if he was feinting, but the demon was apparently letting him stand up to face him. He took the chance and hauled himself up, spun around, and climbed over the bar. The demon waited until they were facing one another, about ten feet apart, to speak again. Once they were, and Sam got a good look at the demon, he realized with a jolt that there were huge dark splotches—blood—covering the front of his shirt and pants. It didn't seem to be Reggie's; he couldn't see a wound.

Which meant it had to be Tim's. Sam's stomach lurched.

The demon saw him looking and smirked slightly, but offered no comment.

Sam finally said, "So Lucifer sent you. Why?"

The demon sighed. "Because he feels that earlier this evening you two didn't part on the best of terms. He said you seemed…troubled."

Sam glared. "Something like that."

"He'd like to speak to you again," the demon said. "Smooth things over. Make sure there are no…hard feelings," he said carefully.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Well if he can just pop into my mind whenever he wants, why does he need you to announce his arrival?" The question confused and unsettled him, but he didn't let it show.

"Because he doesn't want to pop into your mind, Sam," the demon said. "Apparently he thinks you find that…invasive."

"He'd be right."

"Oh, I know." The demon smiled, teeth flashing. "Which is why I found you for him, in order to arrange another meeting. This time, face-to-face."

Fear trickled like ice down the back of Sam's neck. It took him a second before he could clear his throat and say, with as much confidence as he could muster, "Not if I kill you first." It was a bluff, and a bad one at that. Without Ruby's knife, he was, for all intents and purposes, weaponless.

The demon knew it, too, and laughed, mirth mingled with cruelty twisting his features. "With what?" he asked. "That pigsticker in your pocket you kept reaching for? Good luck." He pointed at his own chest. "Plus, you wouldn't want to hurt your good friend Reggie here, now would you?"

"Who said anything about hurting Reggie?" Sam asked. If he had to bluff, he figured he might as well bluff for all he was worth. He raised a hand toward the demon.

_That _was enough to give the demon pause, at least. He paled, eyes wide, and backed up a few steps. But then, he seemed to recover, took several steps forward until his chest was almost touching Sam's extended palm, and grinned. He still looked a bit shaken, but triumphant nonetheless. "You can't do a damned thing to me, Sam. You didn't swallow a drop of that blood, now did you?"

"Who says I didn't?" Sam said, not withdrawing his arm.

"Reggie says." The demon tapped his—Reggie's—forehead. "And Reggie knows a lot of things, Sam. About this place, for instance." He gestured at the ravine. "And I've got to hand it to him, him and his friend both. They might be no match for a handful of demons, but they're exceptional trackers. Because even in the middle of this wasteland you call the prairie out here, based on a couple footprints and some tire tracks, they'd deduced that this place was your broody hideout of choice. They'd planned on jumping you here if they couldn't catch you at the bar. And, by the way, I have to say," he said, glancing at the ravine again. "I like this spot. Very…dramatic."

"And how'd you know to go after Tim and Reggie?" Sam asked, still keen on merely letting the demon run his mouth.

"You," the demon said, flashing a grin. "When my Father came to you tonight, even in your sleep, your mind was full of them. Full of guilt. You were so _consumed_ by it. Because you think," the demon chuckled, "that it's you who's the reason that their friend is dead. That it was you who tore their lives apart. And I will tell you," he indicated his forehead again, "Reggie here? He certainly agrees with that statement. And he has a few choice four-letter words for you after what happened to Tim tonight. He wants me to rip your heart out." The demon shrugged. "Personally, though, I'd hardly blame you. It's not like _you_ set those demons on Steve. Or me on Tim. But you…" he shook his head. "You, Sam Winchester, are something else. You'd think that two men holding you down and trying to force your drug of choice down your throat might dry up your sympathies a bit, but _no, _oh no." He looked positively gleeful_. _You? You feel _remorse_ afterwards." He looked delighted. "Their names, their faces. Lucifer figured they'd be somewhere nearby. And that's why I'm here now."

Sam could feel his blood boiling. "Well you can tell Lucifer—"

"Tell him yourself," the demon said. "He'll be here soon." And then he took a few steps backwards, calmly held up his own hand, and said, "Goodbye, Sam."

And the next thing Sam knew, he was in the air. Tossed backwards like a ragdoll, he was suddenly hurtling over the rusted railings, over the lip of the ravine, and into the waiting darkness below.

...

And he was falling, plunging through blackness, his heart in his throat and wind screaming in his ears. In those few seconds, any doubt he'd had that falling from this height wouldn't kill him was erased from his mind, pushed out by sheer terror. Midair, he tried desperately to twist his body, find some sort of protective position that would offer at least some degree of protection against the inevitably catastrophic damage he'd suffer when his body hit the rocks. He couldn't manage it.

And then, with a sickening _crunch _that he felt rather than heard, his back slammed into something hard. Followed by his arms, his legs, the back of his head. Lights popped behind his eyes. His breath was driven from his lungs. It was too fast for pain to even register. He could, though, sense an odd, detached sort of splintering feeling, like his body was made of ice that was slowly cracking, fracturing into a thousand crumbling shards. He also sensed, somehow, that the surface he was sprawled upon was uneven. Slanted. And then he was rolling, tumbling down, until he heard a splash and landed on uneven ground, his arm and leg that were splayed out on one side of him suddenly doused with biting, aching cold. _The creek, _a distant part of his mind supplied.

And that was when the pain hit, the pain of a body shattered, coming from nowhere and everywhere at once like everything under his skin had been broken and crushed and melted down into liquid fire, consuming his very essence. He couldn't breathe.

More lights popped at the edges of his vision, tiny white fireworks, urgent and impossibly bright. He tried to blink, but found he couldn't.

And then, without warning, everything went dark.

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

_**Dearest Forsaken  
><strong>_**Chapter 2**

**There's a fabulous banner up for this fic made by kiscinca on LJ. It's up on crazybeagle(dot)livejournal(dot)com!**

The strangest thing woke him up. A smell. Faint, but distinct, and one he recognized.

One he _definitely _recognized.

His eyes snapped open.

…And he discovered he couldn't see a thing. Everything was as dark as though he'd been blindfolded, and his body felt…weirdly numb. Floaty. Almost non-present. He almost wondered if he was still asleep, passed out—or maybe this was what death was like, as clichéd as that sounded, suspended in some big black empty expanse—but then, there was that _smell._

It was light, and disguised by what he now realized was a breeze that smelled like wet stone that he could somewhat feel blowing across his face, but it was definitely _there._ The smell was citrusy, and heady, but airy somehow.

It smelled like Jess.

And somewhere in the far reaches of his mind, distant and hazy through the sheer, blissful void inside him, a voice was telling him no, that was wrong, that was a bad thing. That Jess should definitely _not_ be here.

But for the life of him, he couldn't think why.

He let his eyes fall shut, inhaled—or at least he _thought_ he was inhaling, though it was hard to tell when he felt practically disembodied—deeply, and relaxed when the smell became stronger, glorious and mesmerizing and all around him, and he felt cool fingers ghosting across his forehead.

—_Sam? _a voice whispered, somewhere above his right ear. Or, where he thought his right ear must be.

And it _was _her, it had to be her, he could hear her and freaking _smell _her and…

_Wrongwrongwrongwrong, _the other voice, the one in his own mind, hissed right back. He ignored it.

—_Wrong? _the other voice—Jess— asked, tone placating. –_What's wrong? _She paused, and fingers brushed his forehead again. –_Nothing's wrong, Sam. Everything's okay now. You're safe._

_WRONG._

He tried to open his eyes again, the wheedling sense of unease finally overcoming his desire to lie still and to simply _be _with her.

And when he opened his eyes, the sight that met him—the hem of a skirt, the delicate curve of a neck and shoulders pale in the predawn light, snaky ropes of light hair falling forward to dangle inches above him, a round and smiling face, eyes soft and compassionate—banished all the remaining doubt from his mind.

She was here. He didn't know how, but she was here. And she was real. He smiled.

—_Jess, _he tried to say, but his lips moved soundlessly. He tried again, but to no avail. This time, though, he felt something warm and wet, with the tang of copper to it, filling up the back of what he now realized was his throat. He gulped. It didn't go away. The warmth spread across his tongue, over his lips, his chin, making him aware for the first time since waking of each particular member as the liquid hit it. He gagged.

—_Shhh, _she said, one hand moving to cup his cheek, her eyes sad. _Baby, you're hurt. Don't try to talk, okay? _

He frowned, confused, and choked a bit on what he now realized must be blood flooding into his mouth. He looked up at her, feeling his eyes widen. _–Dying? _he mouthed.

—_No, _she said, wiping bloody dribble from his chin with her thumb. –_Of course not. You're safe now. I'm going to take care of you. _

Unexpectedly, those words brought another, tiny smile to his lips. –_You know when you say that you sound like… _

—_Like who, Sam? _she asked, her voice taking on that kind, patient quality one usually adapts when speaking to somebody who is traumatized and making no sense.

He started a little, sure he hadn't actually said that aloud, or even mouthed it. But then again, he couldn't really be sure of anything right now. He shook his head slightly in a "nevermind" gesture.

But that small movement was all it took. Pain exploded in his head and neck, then rolled outward like a sickening shockwave to fill the rest of his body, to the core of his being. He wasn't sure what exactly what was wrong with him or where—_everything _was wrong, his organs were being ripped out and rearranged, and granite vises had tightened mercilessly around his bones—but this was Hell, this had to be Hell…

His vision blurred and whited out. A strangled cry was torn from him, stifled by the sound of choking and gurgling as more blood rushed into his throat. But Jess must've heard anyway, because even though he couldn't see her anymore, her hands were on the sides of his face, thumbs rubbing gentle circles into his cheekbones, and she was whispering to him again, soft words of comfort he couldn't decipher over the roaring in his ears.

He realized he probably looked terrified—he certainly fucking_ felt_ terrified, half certain he was going to be choked to death on his own blood even as he fought to gulp it back down—and blinked vigorously until he could see Jess again. She was smiling gently down at him, a tinge of sadness in her pretty eyes, one hand moving to tangle itself gently in his hair. He turned his face into the hand still cupped around his cheek, was startled by the cool, tingling sensation that seemed to be emanating from her fingertips, and closed his eyes. Her other hand moved from his hair to trail its fingertips over his neck, his chest. Wherever she touched, he seemed to go numb, cold but wonderfully numb, freed from the agony that shot through the rest of his body, that was tearing him apart from the inside out. His entire world seemed to have narrowed to that _feeling— _the bliss of a reprieve, however small— and God, the smell of her, and even that little knowing smile on her lips….

Maybe this wasn't Hell after all.

—_T-thank you, _he managed, his voice thin and halting and still fighting its way through pooling blood. He coughed. –_G-god…thank you…_

Her eyes crinkled in amusement, her fingers moving to hover just below his ribcage. –_God doesn't have much to do with this, babe, _she said, shaking her head.

When her fingers touched down lightly above his stomach, Sam spluttered a little and gasped at the sudden sensation of something very heavy being lifted off of his midriff, and realized, when he cleared his throat and coughed once more, that the blood had stopped pooling in his throat, and that he could breathe again.

But at those words—_God doesn't have much to do with this_—there was that niggling voice again, telling him that things were off somehow, that he shouldn't be here, much less Jess, but for the life of him he couldn't think how or why when there she was, solid and real and sitting right next to him, her touch soothing and healing and _damn_ if she wasn't the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen…

Didn't mean he shouldn't at least try to figure out how he'd gotten here. It was…troubling…that he didn't know how he'd wound up here, or at least would be troubling if he could _think_ right now through the haze of pain that demanded all his attention and then some, but right about now he could hardly remember his own name, what year it was, let alone the sequence of events that had led up to this moment. –_H-hey, _he whispered, his voice barely audible even to his own ears. –_How… _he trailed off and blinked a few times, feeling like an idiot, but suddenly finding himself unable to form a simple question.

She seemed to understand. –_It doesn't matter. _She twisted a strand of his hair in two fingers.

—_B-but…I can't…I don't know— _He was losing the words as quickly as they formed in his mind, coherency eluding him. He wasn't even sure if he was speaking out loud anymore.

She shushed him again, her finger cool on his lips, but her mouth was twisted in sympathy. She shrugged. –_You fell. _

—_Fell? _He frowned. He couldn't remember falling. He tried to look past Jess into the dark that surrounded them to see where he actually was, get his bearings, but it was like the night had swallowed them both and he couldn't make out a damn thing, and his eyes were swimming. –_Fell…from what? _His gaze settled on Jess again, beseeching.

—_From the top of a fifty-foot ravine._ The answer was weirdly matter-of-fact. –_Right onto a boulder. You rolled off. This is a creek bed, _she said, bending over him, eyes now earnest. _Do you remember?_

He just looked at her. No, he didn't remember. A ravine? What the hell…

—_And you broke just about every bone in your body doing it, too, _she continued, frowning down at him. Sam must've looked horrified at that, because she traced a finger along his jawline and she quirked a smile.— _Kidding, _she placated. –_Well, not exactly. _The grin faded a bit. _–You did a number on yourself, though. Neck, skull, spinal column, ribcage, both legs and an arm, liver, kidneys, spleen, lungs…you name it, you screwed it up. _

As if to prove her right, a fresh surge of pain tore through him like a wrecking ball at her words. Sam was pretty sure that whatever horror had been present in his face before ratcheted up about ten notches.—_Then…h-how… _What he meant was something vaguely to the effect of _How the fuck am I not dead, _but he couldn't quite manage it. His ears were full of his own stuttering heartbeat.

She leaned down further, her face hovering inches above his, and planted a hand on his chest. He felt his pulse even out. –_Because I won't let you die, Sam, _she whispered, her breath tickling his nose. –_Because you're mine. That's why._ She straightened back up, tossed her hair out of her face, smiled. –_And it's a good thing, too. Because I'm the only thing keeping you alive right now._

An involuntary shudder wracked his body at her words. And a piece of the puzzle suddenly clicked into place, a fact so simple and so painfully obvious that had simply eluded him like a puff of smoke until this moment. –_But… _He hesitated, afraid that if he voiced it, it'd suddenly become true and she'd go away, vanish. _–But you're dead._

—_Mmm. _She considered this for a second. _–Nothing gets by you, does it, Sam, _she said wryly. Sam's unease grew, even as he felt what must be his ribs knitting themselves back together under her palm.

—_Then how…_

She rolled her eyes, and clamped a hand over his mouth. _–Shhhh. _She shook her head, looking suddenly annoyed. –_You'd think that balancing on the precipice of life and death would be enough to shut a person up for a minute or two._ She shrugged._ Silly me._

Then another piece clicked into place, realization dawning and sudden revulsion coiling in the pit of his stomach. _–You're not Jess. _

Again, he hadn't said it aloud, but she laughed, the sound was just as he'd remembered it, light and free and like wind chimes. The sound made his heart rise to his throat despite himself. _–I am if you say I am. _

He gulped painfully when she uncovered his mouth. _–No, _he gritted out. _–Can't be. Who are you?_

—_Like I said_. She plucked a curl off her shoulder and held it up before her eyes, twisting it slowly as though observing it. _–That's really up to you. _She tapped his forehead. _–You're the one running this show, Sam. The audiovisual portion, anyways. You're seeing exactly what you want to see. _

—_What are you? _he thought at it. –_Show me._

The Jess-_thing _looked dubious, an eyebrow raised. –_I doubt my current form would bring you much solace. _

—_SHOW me. _

She looked at him steadily. _–You already know who I am, Sam. Think. Think really hard._

And then the final piece snapped into place. And he remembered.

Anger and disgust flared up white-hot in his chest, and he tried to scrabble backwards, away from her—_him_, rather—only to be held fast by hands gripping his shoulders, nails digging in, pinning him down. –_Don't try to move, _she—he—warned. –_You'll just injure yourself further._

—_Fuck you. _

—_Look, _Lucifer said, throwing up Jess's hands. –_I'm only trying to help you. I never meant for this to happen._

—_Like hell you didn't. _But Sam didn't try to move away again, the pain from last attempt having left him nauseous and watery-eyed. –_Change back, you bastard._

He raised an eyebrow. –_Fine_. And suddenly, in the space of a heartbeat, Jess was gone, replaced by a man, blond, thirty-something, and smirking at him. –_Better?_

Sam just glared.

—_I see, _Lucifer said icily. –_Listen, _he continued. –_I've told you already I will never lie to you. I mean it when I say this wasn't supposed to happen_. He gestured above them, at what Sam presumed, had he been able to see it, was the wall of the ravine. _For that I am sorry. _He touched Sam's arm, and Sam couldn't help an involuntary sigh of relief as the skin went cold, the bones painlessly shifting and reforming themselves under Lucifer's broad hand.

—_But that demon…_Sam started.

—_Is an insolent, presumptuous coward, _Lucifer finished, words sharp.

—_Under YOUR orders, _Sam practically spat.

Lucifer shook his head. _–This was a pretty far cry from my orders, Sam. Was he under my command? Yes. Did he obey me? No. I never meant to hurt you._

—_Yeah, good job with that, _Sam said tightly as Lucifer wedged a few fingers between the back of Sam's head and the ground, eyes narrowing when he held the fingers back up in front of him and found they were wet with blood.

—_Let me explain._

—_Not interested. _His stomach turned at the sight of Lucifer's stained fingers, knowing what that must mean, the realization finally hitting him hard that Lucifer really was the only thing holding his body together and keeping it alive right now.

—_My orders, _Lucifer said evenly, _once I had a vague idea of where I might find you based on your hunter friends, were merely to have you observed, watched from a discreet distance, in the event that you did anything…rash._

—_Like kill myself, _Sam supplied, anger simmering at this discovery of yet another unwelcome intrusion.

Lucifer nodded. –_Like kill yourself, _he agreed. –_Because I know you, and I know that after I left you, you were inclined to try. _

—_Obviously you don't know me, _Sam said, eyes shuttering a bit as he felt coolness at the back of his skull. _–Because I wasn't going to, _he said. –_Not tonight._

—_I know that, too, _Lucifer said, looking irritated. _–But Marlowe, as I have said, is grossly presumptuous. He truly believes he knows the desires of my heart better than I do. _He laughed. It was a chilling sound.

—_Marlowe?_

—_The demon that did this to you, _Lucifer clarified. –_A servant of mine, I confess, for some time. You might know him for his stage tragedies. _

—_Wait…_ Sam blinked in surprise. _–Marlowe as in Christopher Marlowe? _

—_In life, that was his name, yes, _Lucifer said. –_A fan, are you? Well. He wasn't writing about scholars-turned-sorcerers who had offered up their souls to me in exchange for fame and intellectual superiority without a degree of personal experience in the matter. _He looked disgusted. –_He has been my devoted servant for many years. Though tonight….tonight I fear his true colors came through. _

—_What's that supposed to mean? _Sam asked, making a vague mental note that if he made it through tonight in one piece to promptly burn the old copy of _Dr. Faustus _he had buried somewhere in his duffle,useful bit of literature for hunters or no.

—_It means, _Lucifer continued, voice tight with what Sam thought was suppressed rage, _—His orders were to follow you, merely follow you, and not to make himself known unless you were about to try to dispose of yourself. In that case, he was to do it for you, in a manner less...messy, or painful, than whatever average human means you had planned. So that I could come to you and bring you back, and perhaps reason with you in the process. _

—_And here you are, _Sam said, turning his face away now that he could move his head and neck again.

—_Yes, _Lucifer said, a bit sadly. _–Here I am. Though not because I relish seeing you broken down to this state. _

Sam snorted.

—_It's true, _Lucifer continued. _–Earlier tonight we parted on less than affable terms, I'll admit._

_Gee, I wonder why, _Sam thought bitterly.

If Lucifer heard his thoughts, he didn't respond. –_I was…bothered by it. Angry, I'll admit. Because you refused to see reason. And furthermore, that you had hidden yourself from me. I stated in my anger, regrettably before Marlowe, that you had wholly underestimated me, that I would find you in a heartbeat the second you tried to dispose of yourself._

Sam must've looked surprised at that, because Lucifer grinned, smug. _–A soul preparing to cross the veil between life and death is like a homing beacon, Sam. And yours is especially brilliant._

—_Fuck you, _Sam repeated, but an icy dread had gripped his chest. Lucifer really _was _here, as in, physically _here_, bending over him, _healing _him, even…

—_I am not the one who did this to you, Sam, _Lucifer said, eyes narrowing. _–I regret having put any degree of confidence in Marlowe now, but believe me, he will be punished for his insolence. _His gaze bored into Sam. _–I am aware of what happened, I can see it in your memories. Marlowe couldn't help but declare himself boldly to my Chosen One, or to inflict some degree of what he saw as punishment for your…resisting me. Set up a second meeting for us as an added bonus. And he took your mere contemplation of suicide as excuse enough to make himself known to you, and to wound you for your opposition. And I'm guessing, _he added with a crooked grin, _that a healthy dose of fear for his life when he faced you helped him make up his mind, as well. And why shouldn't it. _He gently grasped Sam's chin, turned his head so he was looking at him. _The things you're capable of? _Pride shone in his eyes._ They're beyond his wildest dreams. _

Sam jerked his head away.—_Don't touch me. _

Lucifer ignored that. _–Now that I have you here, though, _Lucifer said, _—And not in any shape to ruin the courtesy of the conversation by trying to damage Nick here, _he gestured at himself, —_or to run away, I would speak to you again. _

—_You can't keep me here, _Sam hissed, shaking his head minutely. _–Can't force me to say yes this way. It's compulsion. _

—_Oh, I don't plan on keeping you here long, _Lucifer said, gesturing up at the sky. _–The night's no longer young._ Sam looked up, and finally realized he could now somewhat see around him now. It was still too dark in the mouth of the ravine to see what he knew would be a nearby stream, though he could hear it, or the scattered boulders that he had hit on the way down. The sky, though, which he could see through the dark masses of high-above treetops, had paled to a dustier blue, and only a few stars remained.

—_And it's not compulsion, _Lucifer said. _–It's far from compulsion. I'm keeping you from death._

—_And life, apparently, _Sam said, trying and failing to move his legs.

—_No, Sam. I know you're in no frame of mind to be won over by me now. And I'm willing to bide my time. I'm merely demanding your attention for a few moments, for you to hear me out. Besides, _he said, with a sudden, rueful smile, _even if I could compel you to accept me, I'm not so foolish as to try to torture you into doing it. All that would accomplish is demonstrating exactly how stubborn you are. For example…_

He lifted one hand from where it had settled over Sam's heart, held it up, and balled it into a fist.

And Sam screamed, as every bone Lucifer had just knit back together shattered anew, every organ he had saved from the brink of rupture tore itself within him. He found he couldn't breathe again, and spluttered through the blood welling up in his mouth.

—_I could leave you like this, _Lucifer said, shaking his head, looking amused and a little sad. –_All day long._ Lucifer twisted his fist, and the pain only intensified. Sam writhed, tried to cry out, but couldn't. Blood bubbled over his lips, poured from his nose.

—_But I won't. And you know why? _Lucifer leaned down close, whispered in his ear. –_Because you would lie here all week if you thought it would spite me. _

—_But enough is enough, _Lucifer said after a long, tortuous moment, tone turning sympathetic. His hand opened, shrank, and became thinner, more delicate. And suddenly Sam was looking up at Jessica again.

—_Stop, _he thought, eyes welling up despite himself. His brain was becoming hazy again, vision tunneling, whether from lack of oxygen or a bashed-in skull he didn't know. –_Don't…don't use her. _

—_If you're seeing Jessica, that's not my fault, or my doing, _he said in her voice. _You've projected her onto me_. _I've told you. The mind produces fantastic delusions when it is mere inches from death. I was merely playing along, and pulling the details out of your mind to do it, because I thought it would put you at ease. And I'm not doing it to mess with your head, which I know is what you're thinking, _he said, tucking a strand of Jessica's hair behind her ear. _When I came to you in your dreams in this form, it was merely to prove a point. I meant no disrespect. _

Sam squeezed his eyes shut as he felt Jessica's fingers light somewhere near his sternum, healing him anew. –_Leave me alone. _

—_I merely spoke the truth, _Jessica's tone was light, frank. _–You got her killed. _

—_LEAVE, _Sam repeated, biting back a sob as his body traitorously relaxed into Jess's familiar touch.

—_I can't do that, Sam, _Lucifer said, making Jess's voice sound so goddamn _gentle _that Sam wanted to wring his neck. –_You're dying. I have to help you. Because I don't see anybody else coming to your rescue, do you? _A caress to his hair. _–Certainly not Dean._

—_Shut up. _

—_I'm not telling you anything you don't already know. _He paused, looking thoughtful. _–Where is Dean, anyway?_

Sam tried to spit a mouthful of blood at him, but only succeeded in making it burble out down his chin and neck.

Ever so tenderly, Lucifer lifted the hem of Jessica's skirt—one of her favorites, soft yellow with eyelet lace—and dabbed at Sam's mouth and throat with it, mopping up the blood. –_Dean isn't here, _Lucifer said simply. –_You're alone. _

The certainty of the statement was chilling.

—_And you know what I find ironic about that? _he asked as he swiped a hand over Sam's abdomen, and Sam could've sworn he felt his guts realigning themselves. –_This is Dean we're talking about. Dean, who always swore to your father he wouldn't so much as let you stub a toe. Dean, who faced down Hell for you. But the second I show up? He drops you like a wet blanket._

Sam said nothing. There was really nothing _to _say. He turned his face away again.

—_Now I know what people say about me, Sam, _Lucifer continued, _and I know them to be wrong, but I've heard the hype. And based on the opinions of every being in the universe excepting myself, I'd conclude that I'm the one thing you need protecting from the most. Dean has to know that. So I have to ask, Sam...where is he? _Sam ignored him, and Lucifer smirked. _–I'm astounded by your brother's loyalty to you. He's weak, _he hissed, _—And he fears you. And though he may think he's got an ounce of hope to combat all of this with the help of pathetic, bumbling fool of a fallen angel whose own loyalties are obscure and tenuous at best, let me tell you, he will fold to my brother. _

—_You're wrong._

—_Am I? _he asked, eyebrows raised. _Loyalty is a frail thing, Sam. I was loyal to my Father, and look where it got me. Human loyalty? Even more so. Humans, Sam, are transient, mindless louts who are incapable of seeing past the tips of their own noses. And what they call "love"? _He sneered, curling Jessica's lips. –_It might hold for awhile, hardly the space of a breath, really, until one day it crumbles at the slightest pressure and buries you in the wreckage. You know this. Dean showed you this tonight. You needed him. He abandoned you. _He felt Jessica's hand slide under one of his own, grasp his fingers. _–I will never abandon you. _

Sam tried to withdraw his hand, and stifled a cry as a sharp pain ricocheted from his wrist all the way up his arm. He let it fall limp. Lucifer didn't relinquish his grip. —_If you hate humans so much, _Sam asked through gritted teeth, —_How do I know you aren't just going to abandon me once you've gotten what you wanted?_

Lucifer laughed, as though genuinely startled Sam had even asked. _—That you're human is an unfortunate consequence of your destiny, Sam. But you are so much more than that. So much better than that. And not a soul on earth seems to be able to appreciate exactly what you're worth. The things you can do...the things you WILL do…. You're superior to them, Sam. To all of them. You're the one who will do great things. Things that truly matter, far beyond the scope of this dust mote you call a planet. And they hate you for it, condemn you. Your own brother reviles you. You know this. And you've tolerated it all for so long._ He bent over him until their foreheads were nearly touching, and all he could see were Jessica's eyes, soft and loving. _–So why do you waste your time with them? _Lucifer breathed.

—_Get off me, _Sam said, gaze unfaltering.

Lucifer sighed heavily, but complied, straightening gracefully. –_Have it your way. _

—_Let me go._ Sam's voice was low, mutinous.

—_Fine, _Lucifer said coldly, but peered down at Sam as though disappointed. Neither of them said anything for a long moment. Then, —_I'm going to end them, you know._

—_Who? _

—_Every person in this world who professes to love you. _He made a face at the word "love" as though it were some filthy obscenity. –_I will take them away from you, Sam. One by one. They're not worthy of you. And I will keep taking them away until you finally realize that you, _he reached over to take Sam's other hand, _—are alone. That you have always been alone. That there has never been, and will never be, anybody but me._

—_I'll kill you first, _he snarled, but fear dropped like a lead sinker into the pit of his stomach. If anybody else died because of him…

—_Good luck with that, _he said, unlacing Jess's hands from Sam's. –_In the meantime, I'll wait for you. _He leaned down, pressed a kiss to Sam's forehead. Sam could see Jess's white throat above him, her hair falling in curtains around his face. It infuriated him. _–You will come to me, of your own volition. I know you will. _

—_Go to Hell._

—_Not anytime soon, _Lucifer drawled. _–Never again, in fact. But I will leave you. _And suddenly he was reaching for Sam's temple with two fingers, wearing a secretive smile on Jess's lips. –_Sleep now, _Lucifer whispered.

...

His cell phone woke him, vibrating and ringing from inside his pocket. He blinked dully up at the sky—bordered by the silhouettes of trees, it was inky black and mostly clear, except for a few scattered gray tufts of cloud among the stars. He yawned, wishing his stupid phone would leave him alone because he was so damn sleepy…and then he gasped, as with a sick swooping sensation somewhere near his heart, he remembered where he was. And why. And before he knew it, he was sitting bolt upright, breathing hard, his switchblade in hand.

And he was fine. Completely unhurt, as far as he could tell. Not even sore.

He stood up, stretched, walked in a little circle to confirm it, but yeah, he was fine. Great, in fact. Like he'd just woken up from a week-long nap.

He looked around. Even now that he was apparently whole and on his feet, it still wasn't easy to see much of where he was. The thin creek twisted and turned somewhere off to his right. Rocks crunched under his feet. A few sharp large rocks and more than one boulder were strewn haphazardly around him, as well as a few bedraggled plants. Everything was thrown into sharp, shadowed relief by the glare of what must've been the headlights of his rental, stories above him.

And he was alone.

_Damn it._

He scrubbed a hand over his face, pausing when he felt something flake off on his fingers. Blood, dried. He felt sick.

Hardly aware that his phone was still ringing persistently, he reached up, felt the back of his head. His hair was matted with it—it was still tacky in places. _Oh God, it DID happen…_ He closed his eyes, willed himself to calm down before he checked the rest of himself. His shirt and sweatpants were stiff, caked with creek mud or more dried blood or both, and torn up in places.

His nerves shot, he wheeled around, and in the wan light of the headlights he could make out a big dark patch, coating the river pebbles where his head had been lying, and scattered smears and blotches surrounding the rest of the area. It was a ways up from the creek itself, and though he vaguely remembered having first landed halfway in the creek, and could almost feel the shock of the ice-cold water soaking his arm and leg, he realized with an awful jolt that Lucifer must've moved him, laid him out on the bank. And—he gulped—there was a set of footprints in the crumbling, gravelly dirt, barely visible except to his trained eyes, that meandered all the way around the area, from the creek to this spot. A man's, by the looks of them.

Nick's.

Lucifer's.

His gaze inexplicably drifted upwards, towards the steel railings, the car, and the road, and he vaguely wondered if anybody who drove past this anonymous little creek in the middle of nowhere would ever guess what had transpired here.

That the devil had walked the earth on this very spot.

But no, it all looked innocent enough. The crickets were out, the air was cool.

Except for those dark stains, that seemed to draw his attention back to them like some dead thing. He walked over to that largest one, where his broken head had been, and kicked at it, scattering and upturning the pebbles, scrabbling at it with his toe until it was gone. To destroy the evidence, as it were.

To banish the memories from his mind of Lucifer's fist twisting, of his bones shattering, his insides exploding…

His stomach revolted. He clamped a hand over his mouth, barely made it to the creek before he was on his knees, heaving.

When he was done puking up what felt like an entire week's worth of meals, he swiped the back of a badly shaking hand across his mouth, waited until the current had swept the mess he'd made away, and then cupped his hands in the water to take a drink. But when he brought it to his face, his stomach took another nosedive that almost had him gagging again as he realized, when the headlight beam caught the water, that it was tinted an odd color. That was when he remembered he'd had blood on his hands. Swallowing convulsively, he let it run out of his hands and turned away from the creek.

And then his phone was ringing again.

He ignored it for a second time, letting it go to voicemail as he sat down on the bank with his head in his hands, figuring whoever was on the other line wouldn't want to deal with him in near-hysterics.

But he'd be okay, he _would_, he just needed a few minutes.

Curious, though, he picked up his phone just to check the time through its now-cracked screen, noting he had 2 voicemails but not checking who they were from.

10:30 PM.

10:30 PM, October 2, 2009.

He frowned.

Last time he checked, it'd been October 1. Which meant he'd been lying here, passed out at the bottom of the ravine, all day long.

He let out a shaky breath. This place really was in the middle of nowhere, if nobody had found him, with the empty car and headlights and all.

Speaking of headlights, he hoped to God the car battery hadn't run itself dead by now.

And he sincerely hoped could even get out of this damn ravine.

Looking up at the rock face, the chill of the night soaking into his bones, he suddenly felt very much alone.

And he was so damn sick of being alone.

He shivered, flipped open the phone and feeling slightly comforted by its cheery little digital glow, and didn't even bother to listen to the voicemails before hitting the "redial" option. How he even had cell reception out here was beyond him, but he wasn't going to question the benevolence of the cell phone gods at the moment.

The line only rung once before a voice answered on the other end with a slightly hesitant, _"Sam?" _

And damn if the sound of that voice didn't leave him nearly dizzy with relief. "Dean." It came out as a near sob. He listened for a moment, and then quickly assured, "Yeah. Uh, yeah. I'm okay. Sorry. I, uh…" He laughed, the sound slightly high-pitched and somewhere between happy and manic. "I had kind of a shitty day." His voice cracked a bit, and he cleared his throat. "'M good now."

Sam had gotten up and started pacing a bit, kicking nervously at the stones, but he stopped dead at the next words Dean said, his mouth falling open a bit.

"_So, uh, listen, man. Earlier, I, uh…I made a pretty big friggin' mistake, and…uh, I think we should meet up." _ There was no anger in his tone. No bitterness. Just the slightly awkward, sheepish, hopeful tone Dean usually reserved for when he was trying to spit out some sort of apology.

Sam held the phone out in front of him and just looked at it for a long moment. It wasn't until he heard Dean's voice on the other end saying, _"Uh, Sam?" _ that he realized he'd been grinning like an idiot. And that his cheeks were wet.

He held the phone back up to his ear, trying—and probably failing—to regain some form of composure. He wasn't sure if he wanted to break down and cry like he was all of five years old, or run and jump and whoop and laugh…well, also like he was all of five years old. His heart felt like it was ready to burst right out of his chest.

"Uh, yeah. Sorry. Yeah." He cleared his throat for the umpteenth time. "That'd be great," he said. "Where do you wanna meet?"

***End***


End file.
